


the funeral of the former year

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Series: a game of feelings and intelligence [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spurs’ title challenge is on the ropes, Dele’s punch on an opposing player gets him grassed by social media, faces a three card ban, and realises for the first time, he has left nineteen behind and all that age implies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the funeral of the former year

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from To Mrs MB On Her Birthday by Alexander Pope 
> 
> This story is the first of two. The other half will be posted in the next week.

**25 April, 2016. Match Report: Tottenham Hotspur 1- 1 West Brom (BBC Sport)**

**Tottenham Hotspur's title ambitions were dealt a severe blow as West Brom defender Craig Dawson's second-half equaliser put Leicester City within one victory of winning the Premier League.**  
Spurs looked set to narrow the gap to five points with three games left after Dawson bundled Christian Eriksen's teasing cross into his own net.  
But he made amends by heading in Craig Gardner's corner from six yards.  
Spurs are seven points adrift, meaning Leicester can **win the title on Sunday.**

**one**

The walk to Pochettino’s office felt like the longest and the shortest distance at the same time. 

Earlier this morning, Dele found himself in the locker room of the first team, stripping off his street clothing, slipping into his training gear, only for Kyle to stick his head through the door. 

“Dele,” he greeted, and normally, Kyle’s face would be wreathed in smiles, but last night’s draw put paid to that; the grim faces in the locker room all around after the match. They didn’t lose the match to West Brom, but with two points dropped, and Leicester seven points in the lead, they might as well have. 

“Walks,” Dele nodded as he slipped on his shoes, and wiggled his feet in them to and fro until they felt comfortable. No laces meant minimum fussing. “Hey,” he walked over to Kyle, “ you alright, mate?”

“The gaffer wants to see you, asap. He’s in his office.”

No cracking of jokes, and Kyle didn’t hang around, just touched Dele’s hand and said, “We’ll speak later, yeah? Poch wants to speak with you now.”

***

Dele stood outside of Pochettino’s office, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, surreptitiously glancing down the brightly lit hall and high sheened floors to see if anyone had news about Eric. He checked his phone this morning, no text, and even online, everyone _schtum_ , having no news from the night before.

The halls were clear, so no one to call to and be distracted with - although he heard activity in the other parts of the building. 

A noisy exhale of breath, and he looked at the door, the title and name done in the club’s custom font (according to H.) under the famous cockerel standing on the ball. 

**Mauricio Pochettino: Head coach.**

Pochettino’s summons felt like being called to the head teacher’s office. 

Unlike his past times being called to the head teacher’s office, the tremor buzzing around in his gut wasn’t false bravado or aggrieved defiance. Squaring his shoulders, Dele knocked on the door. After an indeterminate amount of time (it might have been seconds or minutes, Dele didn’t even know), the door swung open. 

Pochettino stood in the doorway, his face set into its default frown, his mouth pursed as if he had been deep in REM only for a noisy neighbour to bang on his door at 04:00am in the morning. Pochettino clad in the crisp white of the Spurs training jersey and dark bottoms stopped that comparison cold, because Pochettino was awake, and already at hard at work at 08:00 am.

“Dele,” he greeted, his voice not as gruff as his features were. Pochettino stepped aside as he held the door open. “Come in.”

The emotion churning in his gut only sharpened as Dele sat down as directed after a brief handshake. Pochettino motioned him to sit down, and he sat down opposite Dele, but on the same side of the desk, with a laptop open on its sleek surface, screensaver in action, with planets in space floating around. 

Pochettino being Pochettino, didn’t mince words. “You’re facing a charge by the FA, and are looking at a three match ban.”

 _Three matches!_ the words klaxxon loud, although Pochettino hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t have to. 

“A three match ban?” Dele repeated, disbelievingly. “For _what_ ?”

Pochettino reached over to the laptop, his finger drawing a line on the touchpad, the screen bounced to life. The webpage on the twitter interface, and loads of videos on twitter. All screen-capped to the minute where Dele turned around and punched Yacob in his stomach. Blurred images showing the anatomy of his anger, from him squaring up to - 

“It wasn’t a punch,” Dele tried to explain. “It was-” the words died on his tongue as Pochettino leaned forward elbows resting on his thighs, fingers laced together, his stare steely and unmoving. 

“It doesn’t matter what it was,” Pochettino said. “It _matters_ you put your hand on another player in that way. It _matters_ that NBC picked it up and posted it online. It _matters_ that you won’t be any use to us for three matches.”

“Even...” Dele dabbed at his lips with his tongue, rubbing his hands together as a chill shot through his body, the enormity of his action hitting him with every breath. “Even if I appeal?”

“You _can_ appeal,” Pochettino agreed, “but the team will have to plan without you for at best, at least one match, at the _worse_ \- three.”

Pochettino did not say what the ban meant, but they both knew anyway. Chelsea, Southampton and Newcastle. His season was done. 

_Shit_.

Deflated and contrite, Dele raised his head, meeting Pochettino’s stare head on. This felt a million times worse than reporting to the head’s office.

“I’m sorry.”

“Your character is very... strong. And you’re young, and can make mistakes. When you make mistakes at this level, you have to pay.”

Swallowing around the lump now lodged in his throat, Dele nodded. 

“We’ll appeal the ban, if you want. I don’t expect -” Pochettino made a face of displeasure at the unfinished thought. 

“Any news about Eric?” 

If Pochettino was thrown off by Dele’s change of subject, he didn’t show it. “Hospital for observation, hopefully he’ll be back tomorrow to train. I’ve asked for no visitors - and no phones.” 

Everyone knew by now how Pochettino treated injuries. Cautious to the point of paranoid, Pochettino didn’t take them lightly, to everyone’s amusement and frustration. 

Remorse bubbling in his gut now, Dele tried to keep his voice as even as he could. “Can I leave now?”

“Wait. Do you still expect to go to the Euros?”

“I-” Dele’s insides now frosted over with ice, even breathing felt fragile, each breath a stab in his lungs. 

“If you’re going to be selected for the Euros, I want you to be here to be training as you did before this happened. You need to keep up your levels, yes?”

“Y- yes.”

“Now you can go.”

**two**

The day after the night before, was rest and recovery. 

Dele knew the importance of it, as well as the wide ranging activities for restoring his body to full equilibrium. It included foam rollers, hydrotherapy, diet. The recovery just as important as match preparation in Pochettino’s eyes, and carried out with the same intensity as he did training.

Dele powered through it, although he felt like bunking off just kicking a ball somewhere. 

Under the watchful eyes of Pochettino’s assistants, you didn’t dare slack off, not with the mini vest strapped to your chest registering all your measurements. Despite the crush of activity, that didn’t stop him from looking up at the entrances to see if Eric would be coming through the door onto the practice field. 

In that instant, he realised two things: one, at six foot, Eric wasn’t an anomaly in this team, and two, there were more light haired lads in this squad than he realised. Christian, Harry, Jan and Toby’s hair colours ranged from shades of the colour of wet sand to dirty blonde. 

“Hey, I heard about the ban, sorry,” that was Harry, who took it upon himself to be Dele’s partner for this part of the programme with warm ups and paired up exercises. Normally, Dele would have been paired with Eric. Sonny and Kevin were paired together, half gasping at the exercises. 

There was nothing to say, was there? Dele only nodded as he pushed through their exercises. 

Three sharp blows of the whistle indicating a break. Showers, lunch and recuperation before the next session in the high afternoon.

Dele grabbed for his towel, half surprised to feel Harry’s arm around his shoulders giving him a comforting squeeze, his grip strong and sure. “Listen, I get it, Yacob was winding you up, it happens, you know?”

 _Not to you_ Dele wanted to say, but he didn’t, knowing that was a lie. Harry got kicked on and pushed on loads in matches, but he just kept his head down and kept working. 

“Leicester -” Dele started and Harry shook his head, cutting that comment short. “We can only focus on ourselves, yeah? See you at lunch?”

Before Dele could answer, Harry smiled, “Never mind. Our lad is back from the wars.”

That was Eric in the doorway, speaking with Pochettino. Pochettino’s arms stuck in the pockets of his bottoms as he looked at Eric, nodding occasionally. 

Dele had found himself at the end of that searching look re: Pochettino at various times this season. When he asked you how you were feeling, he wasn’t just listening to your words, but looking at your body language, as well as keeping medical reports in mind, not wanting to get caught out by a reoccurring injury if he didn’t need to. Eric looked like Eric, face scrubbed clean and cheeks flushed, as he’d jumped out of a hot shower. His eyes now focused on Pochettino, his hands rubbing at the nape of his neck. 

Pochettino nodded, seemingly satisfied, before he gave Eric a pat on his shoulder and turned to walk off, his face lighting up as he saw John McDermott, the head of the Hotspur academy. Dele didn’t know McDermott very well, coming outside of the set up, but Pochettino and McDermott got on like a house on fire, the warm handshakes and half hug an indication as they walked off, speaking happily. 

Dele turned his attention to Eric, now rubbing at his face and his hair, his hair now in spikes like a hedgehog. Dele hung back, suddenly feeling- _unsure_. 

So odd the feeling, Dele frowned, frozen in mid step trying to sort out where _that_ came from. Dele, caught in the slipstream of the other players brushing past him, his body swaying with a pat on the shoulder, or a half hug. In his first season at Spurs, Dele was grateful that he liked the lads, and that they liked him. A tactile side with top personalities, they went out of their way to make him comfortable - to the point of taking the piss out of him at turns. 

“All right?” Tripps asked, doing a body bounce against Dele, because he was too short to throw an arm around his shoulder. 

“Tripps,” Dele greeted with a handshake. Tripps was always game, trying to one up people with improvised and difficult handshakes until the other person couldn’t keep up. Today though, Tripps restrained himself, finishing with a touch of elbows and a fist tapping against his heart. 

“Back to your day job, aye? After last night?” Tripps did a light boxing shuffle, complete with shadowboxing moves, and Dele felt his face flush with embarrassment. 

“Yeah,” Dele replied, placing a hand against his cheek, not surprised to find it hot. “I think I’ll put my gloves away, going forward.”

“You're alright, lad.” Tripps lightly punched Dele on the shoulder, and it was a reprimand and forgiveness all at once. 

**three**

The day passed in a blur. 

For the first time in a long time, when the end of training came around, relief flooded through him as the whistles blew and everyone slowly filed off the field. Sonny and Kevin smiled and waved, and Dele waved back, feeling as if he were peering through a keyhole, everyone distant, their voices muddle and tinny. 

“Dele.” 

Dele looked up, and it was Hugo, making his way towards him quickly. Dele stopped, wiping his hands on his towel now slung around his neck. 

“Hugo,” and even though they referred to each other by their first names, Hugo had the air of a parent among their team. The one who ordered the backline, and fed back to everyone what he expected on the field. Not that he’d admit it, but Hugo was an assistant coach to Pochettino’s philosophy in his own way. 

Hugo’s gloves now in one hand, and looking mint, his hair and clothes neat, even after a day of throwing himself all over the mouth of goal. 

“About last night,” he started, and Dele ducked his head for a bit, before he lifted it again, meeting Hugo’s gaze, half surprised to see his captain’s face creased in lines of sympathy. “You made a mistake.”

“I know,” and Dele’s tone came out clipped, shades of aggressive. Holding up his hands in apology, he took a breath and tried again. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know. If I thought you did, I’d tell you. Just.” Hugo paused, and _hmm_ ’d for a bit, as he had a habit of doing when getting his thoughts together in English. “Just don’t let affect you. No more than it should, anyway.”

Before Dele could ask, “You what, mate?” Hugo strolled off, leaving Dele to tug at the ends of his towel, standing in the middle of the field. Alone on the field, seeing a stray ball around as the kitmen hadn’t come out to gather up the balls as yet. 

Dele lightly dragged his foot on top of the ball, flicked it on his left instep. Flicked it to his right instep, before flicking the ball high in the air, bouncing it from knee to knee. He tugged the towel off his shoulders and threw it to one side, his eyes only on the ball. 

When everything else in the world didn’t make sense, this did, even for a little while. The _thwack_ of ball against leather, the sounds almost hypnotic. Almost, as he caught a figure in the distance, coming closer. Dele kicked the ball high into the air, pirouetted, and hit the ball in its sweet spot as it fell to his foot. It sailed ten minutes towards the net in a graceful arc, its angle descending rapidly, ricocheting off the frame of the goal and sailing to the end of the field. Disgusted with the effort, Dele placed his hands on his hips, and sucked the spit from his teeth. 

“Dell-boy.”

“Dier.” 

“Don’t you hate it when that happens? Bloody goal post.”

Dele nodded his assent. They had _three_ shots ricocheting off goal in the first twenty minutes of the game against West Brom. 

“I can’t believe we lost that game. Fuckin’ mare,” Eric laughed, and it came out brittle and bitter. Eric was one who took things to heart after a game. Normally, Dele would coax him out of his dark moods, which never lasted long, to be fair. 

Because Eric was Eric, Dele turned to him, ready to smile and make it light. Ready to _try_ because that’s what friends did. He opened his mouth, thinking about a joke and a cutting comment summing up the opposition and the night, only to find himself saying with much regret, “I let you down.”

 _“Dele,”_ Eric shook his head, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.“ _No_. Concussions happen.”

“Ha, funny, I don’t mean _that_ ,” Dele responded sharply, throwing his head back and looking at the late spring sky. At this time of year, the ambient light hung about until half seven. Tonight the darkening sky streaked with hot flashes of pink and orange and yellow. “I mean-” he stopped, wondering where to begin. 

“I’m looking at a three match ban.”

“I know,” Eric said in his characteristic drawl. 

“In the middle of a title race, and I go and do that.”

“Nightmare.” 

“And I half expect to be shouted at, but everyone’s being--” there was no other way to spit it out, his voice vibrating with resentment. “Nice, as if I’m thick or something.”

“You wanted to be shouted at?” Eric asked incredulously, his eyes wide and blue, even in the darkening evening. “I mean,” he lifted a shoulder, his brow furrowing as if considering one of Pochettino’s stranger requests on the training pitch. “I can if you want.”

“No!” Dele shook his head, frustrated. “But I don’t expect to be - I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. It’s doing my head in. It’s getting late, I should probably go.” Dele jogged over to retrieve the ball rolled to the far side of the court. It might not be his job, but he put it there, so.

“Dele.” 

Half biting his lip, Dele stood up, ball in hand. “Yeah?”

“We know you feel bad, and like, you’re from the lower leagues and all. It happened, you know? It’s your first season in the Prem and-”

“I can’t excuse it, mate,” Dele murmured, looking at the brightly coloured ball in his hands. Before lifting his head to meet Eric’s stare. For the first time today, he felt sure of _one thing_ at least. “Not anymore.”

“C’mon,” Eric stretched out his hand and waggled his fingers at Dele in invitation. “Let’s go. Poch has given everyone the day off tomorrow. We should disappear before he changes his mind.”

“Yeah,” Dele agreed, slapping Eric’s palm with his own, feeling Eric’s fingers squeezing his hand. Eric looked at him for a minute, one of those considering stares that could border on cold, before breaking out into a brilliant grin, laugh lines stamped at the corner of his eyes, his lashes long and straight. In that moment, Dele got an answer to a question he’d never even thought to ask.

Dele allowed himself to be pulled towards Eric, welcomed an arm thrown across his shoulders, Eric’s body strong and warm. 

As they walked towards the buildings at the end of the training pitch, Dele huffed, “I can’t believe I got grassed by social media.”

“You live by it, so... ”

“It just means that I’ll be a bit more careful, s’all.”

“ _Dele_.”

“Joke, j-o-k-e.” Dele laughed, letting the ball fall from his hand, as they stepped off the pitch. They’ll be fine, he told himself; seven points were insurmountable but not impossible. 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Ooh, did a story from Dele's pov. Go, me.


End file.
